


The Corner of 1st and Amistad

by Chancy_Lurking



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Banned Together Bingo, Gen, Injury Recovery, Philosophy, Root's Deification of The Machine, vs Finch's belief in humanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:01:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28922523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chancy_Lurking/pseuds/Chancy_Lurking
Summary: Root scoffs. “You don’t love Her.”“Not as you do,” Harold allows, because it would seem to him a little conceited to so thoroughly love something he built. He sits down, wincing as he reaches for the panel to adjust the bed. “But you can’t love it wholly either, not if you cannot even understand its primary mission.”(After Root wakes up from an injury, she pulls Harold back into a familiar argument.)
Relationships: Harold Finch & Root | Samantha Groves
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	The Corner of 1st and Amistad

**Author's Note:**

> Banned Together Bingo Square: Humanism
> 
> Having 9/10 prompts completed was causing me such unrest I wrestled with this fic for weeks lmao. Bingo x 2!!
> 
> Title from “You Found Me” by The Fray

“It doesn’t bother you,” Root starts coolly, voice a quiet rasp that nearly startles Finch out of his chair to the rafters, “that you’ve raised your child to work against Her own best interest?”

Finch is glad to see her awake, he really is. His ingrained politeness and aversion to conflict almost lets him say that first, steamroll over an argument he doesn’t want to have. Much less when she’s freshly out of a _coma_ , for goodness’ sakes…

Instead, his shock wins first and he turns to face her stiffly, feeling some strange mix of indignant and helpless. “You’ve been awake for less than a _minute_ and you’re already—”

“I’ve been awake for ten minutes,” she corrects, blearily prying her eyes open to look at him. “I wanted to hear from Her first.”

The thought to have his room outfitted with Faraday caging had crossed Finch’s mind, but had also seemed inordinately cruel given the circumstances. Regret isn’t precisely what he’s feeling, but he has a hard time detangling his emotions into neat words just now.

“Am I to assume she updated you on your condition?” he asks, going to the bucket of ice he’d had brought in for her.

Root gives him a rather dry look. “You’re avoiding my question.”

“It wasn’t a question,” Finch says, because he knows an accusation when he hears one. Still, “As I recall, the Machine has more than demonstrated it is capable of protecting itself.”

“So, crippling Her with humanism was for, what, to build Her _character_?” she challenges.

Harold sighs, because this is a tired conversation, it truly is. Maybe it’s because she’s hurt and frustrated with herself for having ‘let’ it happen, maybe it’s because she’s tired, the anesthesia making her almost as groggy as the injury that has her set on this line of thinking. Arguing about this serves no purpose. There’s nothing he can say to her to make the outcome any different, not that she would trust his words more than what The Machine has told—or _is_ telling her. It’s never really clear how much The Machine fills her ear between cases.

“I made many mistakes in the creation of the Machine, I can readily acknowledge that,” Harold says, looking vaguely towards the security camera in the corner before coming to her bedside. “Just as… I’m certain my parents made mistakes in raising me, though not for want of love.”

Root scoffs. “You don’t love Her.”

“Not as you do,” Harold allows, because it would seem to him a little conceited to so thoroughly love something he built. He sits down, wincing as he reaches for the panel to adjust the bed. “But you can’t love it wholly either, not if you cannot even understand its primary mission.”

“ _Your_ primary mission,” Root corrects, even as she shakily takes the cup of ice from him. “A mistake that almost cost The Machine Her _life._ ”

Harold hesitates, but she’s not looking for him to gentle her, nor does she need it. There’s no reason to offer her pretty words if they aren’t the truth. “I by no means wish to be insensitive to your situation,” he starts delicately, continuing even as Root’s eyes go flinty, catching him in the corner of her gaze. “I haven’t had to grow callouses in the same places as you, but I am not naive. I am well aware that there are people who are _remarkably_ cruel and would aim to create circumstances that would have others be the same.” He shakes his head. “That doesn’t make the preservation of human life at large a mistake. I truly believe that to imply otherwise would mean submitting oneself to the same darkness as the people who’d choose active harm.”

_‘Evil succeeds when good men do nothing_ ,’ and all.

_Faster and more thoroughly so when enough people start believing humanity deserves to suffer the evil,_ Harold thinks tiredly.

The smile Root gives him does nothing to belie the frostbite on the edges of her expression as she tilts her head at him. “Harry, it seems like you’re trying to tell me my existence is a mistake.”

Harold never implied any such thing, shakes his head. “Your existence is a _choice_ , Ms. Groves. _Root_ is a choice,” he replies, and before she can toss it in his face, “just as Harold Finch is a choice.”

In a life cleaved of easy choices, they both crated what they had to in order to survive, he knows that. He’s not interested in weighing his self-concept against hers, but he has no particular compunctions about questioning her capacity for empathy, least not in his own mind.

They all have broken things inside of them.

“And what makes your choice more worthy than mine?” Root replies smoothly.

“It’s not about worthiness. Ms. G—” Harold stops himself. “Root, there is always going to be people making bad choices. That doesn’t make those people mistakes, it just makes them _people_. We can’t just—”

Root cuts him off. “John may be in love with you enough to buy whatever you sell him, but I’ve never had a taste for snake oil.”

The words prod sharply at Harold in a way he doesn’t care to examine too closely, certainly not under her scrutiny. “Is that what Your God has told you I peddle?” he replies loftily, standing before she can reply. “People are worth saving, Root. I imagine that’s why the Machine would have you live, in spite of everything. I imagine that’s why it’d have all of us live.”

There’s a barb right on the tip of her tongue, Harold can tell, but he watches the barely noticeable turn of her head towards her implant, as sure a sign as any that he’s lost her attention to the Machine. It’s just as well, though. He feels less need to sit vigil at her bedside when she’s aware enough to choose her own company.

Harold slips out of the room and leaves her to it, knowing the Machine is fully capable of making sure they are both kept in good company.


End file.
